Party Love

shapeimage_2-4_3Brothers and sisters, I do love a party.  I love LOVE LOVE a party.  I love a big party, I love a small party. But I especially love a big party.  If there’s music, even better.  If there’s dancing, then you’ll need to be ready to catch me when I swoon from happiness. I love getting ready before a party. I love busting a move at a party and I love the afterglow of a party – even if it involves generalized wooziness and fatigue, which is clearly the obvious byproduct of a goodparty.  

Hope Rocks was a good party.  First of all, a private concert by Soul Asylum – fun, loud, indulgent, nostalgic, sweaty rocking out – the base thrumbing through your ribcage – all the best there is to be gleaned from live music.  And every one was there.  People from school, people from book club, people from playgroup, people from the park, people from work, people from other parties.  It felt like the best kind of college party in that you get to sashay around with a drink in your hand and bump into someone you know every few feet.  And just like a college party, there are certain people you simply give a friendly wave and keep on keeping on – and then certain people you chat with for a few minutes before you keep on keeping on – and then there are those you just love to see, people who are bright spots and make you laugh and make you want to stay awhile.  Bright spots.

And there’s always the sweet spot of a party, both spacially and temporally, when your favorite peeps are in a particular spot having a particularly good time and though you may stray for a little jaunt around, you go back to that spot because that is home base for the party – the place you want to be.  I stumbled upon my sweet spot when I shimmied to the left front of the stage and to my shrieking delight found Crackerjack and Nanook and their hubbies, Renaissance Man and Gear Daddy in a dancing tangle with a bunch of other fun people.  At one point in the frenzy, when the first hints of thirst were firing around in my brainstem and hadn’t even reached my cerebrum, Renaissance Man casually handed me an icy cold Red Stripe.  I hadn’t seen him leave, I hadn’t seen him come back, I hadn’t even seen him standing next to me with a beer.  His timing was exquisite and he really made it seem like he just pulled it out of his sleeve.  Mind reader and magician.  Thanks RM – that was the swing beer of the night.

And then there’s the wingman, the partner in crime.  A wingman is usually who you came with, and who you leave with, and who is up for going on adventures to find drinks, food, pot, whatever.  Gigi the Animal Whisperer and Neighborhood Scat Expert was mine and a fine wingman she was.  The best kind of wingman is a wingman who has no problem venturing off on her own, has her own sweet spots to check out and people to see.  A wingman you have to worry about is not a wingman at all.  Gigi is low maintenance and high energy (and a shitload of fun) – I’d take her anywhere.  She even brought me cookies at the end of the night.  Another mindreader and magician. Doctor Dash is usually my wingman and he’s also a good wingman in that he’s fine on his own and he lets me do my thing at a party, but he’s always good for a laugh. His only fault is that he’s much less of a diehard than I am and is usually suggesting we leave when I’m still fully entrenched.  He thinks I don’t know this, but I realize he’s giving me the equivalent of the five minute warning you give your kids at the park when he first suggests we leave, knowing full well it’s going to take me a solid half hour to finish my business, assuming one of my many favorite songs doesn’t come on and then all bets are off and he has to begin the extrication process all over again.  

So wingmen and sweet spots and bright spots: the anatomy of a party. Some things never change.  And then some things do.  I was chatting with a dad from school – total bright spot for me and I won’t say who it is because I don’t want to stir up any trouble.  Suffice it to say, he’s adorable and funny in that smart understated way I just love (i.e. Dash) and I love his wife and they’re just a cutie-pie family.  So we’re having a laugh and all of a sudden a matronly and rather unattractive woman literally grabs Mr. X by the arm and pulls him away . . . about three feet away . . .  three feet away from me.  And I see her simply say “Hi.”  Well, well, well, was the church lady looking out for Mr. X’s wife?  Did she think we shouldn’t be talking and laughing and carrying on?  Granted, I was dressed a little more sexily than usual, but so was everyone – apparently she didn’t get the memo.  The point is, I found it very interesting if not a little unsettling.  She probably meant well, although it was none of her business and how dare she presume anything about me?  I guess now, unlike in college, we need to navigate our bright spots with a certain awareness, some sense of appearances, no matter how pure our intentions.  Don’t laugh too hard with someone else’s husband because everyone knows laughing leads to shady business.  The church ladies are watching, ready to protect your husbands from sluts like me.  Sad but true.

Another difference from college:  Apparently it is not possible to have three children and then expect to drink many beers and jump up and down dancing without peeing (a little).  My parting words to Gigi as I left the sweet spot were “I gotta go pee . . . because I just did.”  And then I get to the bathroom and another mom from school is muttering, so I guess you can’t have four children and expect to bounce around . . . Also, sad but true.

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